from the principal's desk. . .
One morning last week when I joined the Learning on Purpose students, we had a gratitude check in. I love listening to the responses around the circle – big and small blessings, immediate ones and more long term. It’s a great way to get to know each other a little more deeply, and there is gracious spaciousness in the latitude for how personal an answer we offer. I also appreciate starting the day from a place of gratitude. I shared how grateful I am to have acquired an allotment garden this year – I have deeply missed having my own garden since moving to Manitoba, and I love having my hands back in the dirt.
My allotment is probably twice (and maybe four times) as big as any vegetable garden I’ve had in the past. It’s a blessing of spaciousness. But I’ve gardened long enough to know that the blessing of small gardens includes manageability. When I started at the allotment (late, when the weeds really had had a chance to take root and take hold), I thought “I’m glad I’m not a beginner gardener, because this could easily be overwhelming”. And it’s true, I’m not a beginner at gardening. But It’s been 20 years since I gardened in soil that was more clay than sand, I’ve never had a garden big enough to weed by hoeing, and I’ve never had to haul my own water! It’s very different from my shady southern Ontario perennial gardens of hostas, fern and heuchera, with an herb garden and a pocket of veggies.
I do think that stretching outside our familiar skills and landscapes is essential to our continued growth – this is foundational to our understanding and practice of adult learning here at the Centre. Packing up what we know and carrying it to a new place and new set of challenges is the beginning of learning. And as I was immersed in the very physically concrete experience of weeding with a hoe, I had lots of time to reflect! I noticed I was sore enough to need to pace myself with breaks and hydration. I noticed how diverse the community of gardeners is, in our set of plots nestled along the Assiniboine. I noticed (as always with weeding), that challenges that seem insurmountable can be tackled one small patch at a time. I noticed how much I thought about family; about memories of generations of gardeners, my parents and grandparents and great grandparents. I thought about the ways that garden design and habits and skills are cultural and transmitted through families. About the loss of indigenous gardening practices, and the gardens that once existed in Garden Hill and along the Colorado River. About how no one in my family would go hungry if my garden failed. About hiring someone to rototill the garden next season, if I make it through this one.
There was a lot of weeding, and a lot of time for thinking.
I thought about how good it is for me, as an educator, as the Principal of the Centre, to be uncomfortable and frustrated as a gardener. I remember the challenge and discomfort of being a student myself, of stretching into new situations, trying new skills, using tools handed down generation to generation, and adapting them to a new context. I see our students courageously stretching: in both their actions and their reflecting on what they are learning.
After the weeding was finally done, I planted a row of nasturtiums as my reward. Nasturtiums remind me of my grandmother’s garden, and I always plant them in mine. I’m grateful for the hopefulness of the act of planting them, for the act of co-creation with the Creator. I wonder what you are grateful for?
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